Haiku

by Andrew Vachss

  Then I turned to Target, bowed, and said, “Now it is your turn.”

  “Turn! Churn! Burn! Learn!” he clanged.

  I stood, unmoved.

  Lamont lit a cigarette.

  All around us, people enjoyed their lives. At a distance.

  Just as Lamont was grinding out the stub of his cigarette in disgust, Target stepped into the exact spot I had vacated.

  He breathed deeply several times. Then he imitated my kata to such a stunningly correct degree that I was shocked. Certainly, kata is initially taught in slow motion. But mine had been no beginner’s kata; it would have been for advanced students only. Yet, by his third repetition, the difference between Target’s movements and mine would require an expert’s eye to discern.

  I bowed to Target. More deeply this time. He returned the bow—the first time he had ever done so.

  Gray butterflies of fear hovered over the happiness in my heart. Had I erred yet again? In my desire to teach Target certain techniques which would enable him to assist us in loading a van with Brewster’s books, had I awakened a dragon?

  Because, through teaching, I had learned: Target was an idiot savant of violence.

  That knowledge taught me that true humility could never be mine until I progressed beyond my standard refusals of the mantle of leadership the others always sought to place upon me. In speech, respect and condescension are too closely allied. Only conduct conveys truth.

  “How do you want to do it?” I asked Lamont.

  84

  “Dope dealers, they sound perfect. But you look close, they’re strictly a no-go,” Lamont told us all that night.

  “Tactical?” Ranger asked, as tranquilly as a stick of dynamite with an unlit fuse. In his vernacular, it was not “on” yet.

  “Kind of,” Lamont said. “The big dope-men, they got money. And they ain’t about to report getting it ripped off, either. But that kind, they never walk alone. No way we could jack one of them. Even if we pulled it off, there’d still be witnesses. And a whole bunch of gunslingers looking to collect the bounty on us, too.”

  Lamont looked around the circle, as if expecting some opposition, especially from Ranger. I could feel the others look toward me, but I kept my entire focus on Lamont, encouraging by example.

  Lamont lit a cigarette. Then he said, “The street-level guys, they might be carrying some cash, might not. The only ones we’d be able to get to would be holding a few bags, max. You want any more than that, they just steer you to the spot. That means a steel door with a slot, and a couple of shooters behind it, blast anything coming through.”

  “What about the roof?” Ranger asked, still without any sign of his psychosis emerging.

  “That could work,” Lamont said, perhaps instinctively realizing that a side argument over military tactics would be an error in judgment. “But they’d still get too much advance warning—more than enough to make what we need disappear into a safe or whatever. Remember, all we want is cash, not product.”

  I reluctantly admitted the twinge of jealousy I experienced as I observed how skillfully Lamont had acknowledged the value of Ranger’s input while not allowing it to distract the others.

  “Not many people carry real cash,” Michael said. “Even the most legit citizen probably doesn’t walk around with a couple of grand in his pocket. It’s all plastic now.”

  “Professional gamblers?” Brewster said.

  When he got no response, he took it for a lack of understanding, and gave us all a short course on mythical men who worked some kind of “circuit.” Pool hustlers, card players, dice men … all traveling about the country, their pockets stuffed with money so they could “stake” themselves into “the big game” in whatever town they came upon.

  “Take too long to find one,” Lamont skillfully dismissed the idea. I noted how he had finessed what another might have rejected as patently insane, thus achieving his objective without causing hurt. “Besides, like Michael says, they all work off plastic these days. You really want to try rolling dice, hit some guy withdrawing from an ATM at night. Chances are, you get a hundred bucks … and ten years Upstate.”

  “There are still areas where all transactions are in cash, are there not?” I asked deferentially, thinking of my poor lost Luzanne.

  “That closes the circle!” Michael half-shouted, leaping to his feet. “Listen,” he said, sitting down immediately and moderating his voice, as though he understood how close he had come to the edge, “you know where you can always find an ATM? In a strip club. And they have to keep those things loaded, you see where I’m going?”

  “Hit a strip club?” Lamont said, his voice a perfect blend of sarcasm and sneer. Why he saw no need to mollify Michael as he had Ranger and Brewster was not apparent to me.

  “No! For Chrissakes, just listen, okay? I’m saying, we’re talking street-level, right? So who always gets paid in cash besides dope dealers? Hookers, am I right?”

  “We’re not—” Ranger began, but Michael cut him off.

  “Of course not hookers!” he said, indignantly. “How much cash could any of them be carrying at one time, anyway? But what do you think they do with that money, put it in their checking account?”

  “They hand it over—” Lamont began.

  “To their pimps,” Michael finished for him. “There’s two kinds of pimps: the executive types who run the out-call services, and the old-style guys like in the movies—you know the kind I mean.”

  “Black?” Lamont said, again without acknowledging the value of whatever Michael might be saying.

  “Damn right,” Michael shot back. “That’s how it is—money players go where they’re allowed to play, am I right? Look at the NBA. There’s guys on the court bringing in mega-bucks, but they don’t own the teams, do they? So, when you see pimps driving flashy cars, sporting all that jewelry, you know their girls are walking the street. That means their pimps have got to be out there, too. Keep their eyes on the merchandise, make sure they’re working. Probably picking up the cash, too.”

  “It’s true,” Lamont said, quietly. “I remember back in the day—”

  “This is today, man! And it’s still going on, only a little more on the down-low, since the IRS started paying attention. The kind of pimp we’re looking for, he’s not into mutual funds or CDs, trust me. His business, it’s strictly cash-and-carry. He’s always got to be ready if any of his girls get pinched. If the cop lets them make a call, you know what he needs. Any lawyer he calls that hour of the night is going to want to see green before he stands up at the arraignment.”

  “Part of the game,” Lamont acknowledged, a trace of surprised respect in his voice. “Got to have a flash roll, too.”

  “And we don’t want one who drives last year’s Caddy, am I right?” Michael said, in his deal-closer’s voice. “The one we want, his dream car would be a white Rolls-Royce!”

  85

  “This is perfect,” Lamont assured me, later. “Michael’s off on his damn Moby-Dick thing, so he’s out of our way. And the best part is, he’s got Ranger going with him. Brewster can’t play—the boy’s never been blooded.”

  None of us are unchained. I did not “think” this; it was no epiphany. It was not an example of the “insights” I once considered it my duty to share with others, the toxic harvest of the wisdom I had acquired as I descended to “master.” No, this was as if I had just been attacked by a force against which I was powerless. A force of such speed and skill that it could strike and retreat in the same motion.

  “Please” is all I said to Lamont.

  I sat on the sidewalk, close by a subway grille. Lamont and Target fished on each side of me.

  I closed my eyes.

  Honesty in all things. Had I truly been so? Had I kept my vow? Achieved my goal? My internal pontifications were proof that I had not. But this was not the source of my pain. I hurt because the truth had come to me: in renouncing all worldly possessions, I finally saw the selfishness inherent in that very act.<
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  Had I merely kept the money I had possessed at the time—not spent it, but stored it somewhere—I might have come to understand that what I had so dramatically rejected as meaningless was merely an extension of the “wisdom” I had been imposing on others. Yes, it had been “my” money. Mine to do with as I wished. But had I been focused on anything but myself, I would have realized that, someday, it might be meaningful to my brothers.

  Even a tiny fraction of what I had tossed away would have saved Brewster’s library. Saved his life.

  Instead, we were now reduced to desperate measures to achieve the same end. Honor-bound to protect Brewster’s library, Lamont and I were equally bound not to bring harm to any of the others.

  Others? Yes, I answered the contemptuous tone of my spiritual questioner. Ranger, Michael, and Brewster are all fragile, each in his own way. Target cannot even function at a minimal level without attachment to others. Only Lamont and I could survive the incarceration we must risk to obtain the necessary money.

  You are their protectors? We are all protectors of one another, but each in his own way, I answered the implied accusation. Lamont and I are simply the only ones capable of this particular task. We are not superior to the others; we have superior skills in some areas, just as they do.

  Remember, I admonished my spirit, this plan was not mine, it was Lamont’s.

  Lamont longs for his life.

  Thus was the circle of truth revealed to me. Lamont would always be a poet—that was in his soul. But he would not wish to return to that experience. When he speaks with pride about his past, it is always to highlight the difference between the street warriors of a generation ago and the gun-crazed children who call themselves “gangs” today.

  Had Lamont worked so hard to convince me that crime was our only hope so he could be a gang leader once again?

  Are the only truly honest people on this earth those others regard as insane?

  Once, I might have pondered such a question, telling myself I was seeking the Tao.

  Today, my search is for money.

  86

  Lamont and Target had been surprisingly successful in the time I was gone—apparently several hours, given the shifting of the shadows on surrounding buildings. We could have ourselves a fine supper once more.

  We approached Kabuki, a most superior Japanese restaurant I had been visiting for many years … always via its back door. The proprietor, who felt he “knew” me, had given orders with kitchen staff that I should be allowed to purchase whatever “extra” they had available for whatever money I had on hand.

  The proprietor and I had never met in my former life. His knowledge of me was part of whatever mythology surrounded my reasons for walking away from that life, a mythology doubtless developed by former students who were left with the task of explaining the closing of the dojo and the departure of their sensei.

  My fluency in Japanese coupled with my humble demeanor probably only enhanced whatever myth the proprietor had chosen to believe. So he honored my unspoken wish that I not be questioned concerning my reasons for living as I did. I, in turn, honored his generosity by never requesting more food than whatever sum of money I had to offer would reasonably purchase on any given occasion.

  Occasionally, one of the workers would surreptitiously enhance the order. I did not know which one was responsible, or if this was some group decision. But since none sought recognition, I could not disrespect the gesture by refusing—as I would have in my former life.

  What I did notice was that this enhancement of my food orders did not depend on any single individual, because the kitchen staff was always changing.

  Thus, I assumed the proprietor himself had given the instructions.

  A man can be humble without lowering himself. A humble man may accept a gift, but must never embarrass those who give anonymously by expressing his gratitude directly.

  As we approached the back door that evening, we noticed two Chinese youths exiting. They were dressed alike, in elaborately embroidered silk jackets. They passed by us without reaction of any kind.

  “Shadow Riders,” Lamont said, just as we heard the distinctive sound of motorbikes bursting into life.

  “What are Shadow Riders?” I asked him.

  “Gang boys. You can tell from the jackets. They got their name because they all ride. Not hogs, like the Ching-a-Lings up in the Bronx, little scooters, like you see in those kung-fu movies.”

  I was deeply puzzled. The back door of the restaurant was not open to the public. Intruders at the front would be met with force. So those gang members must have been invited. But for a Japanese restaurant to invite Chinese visitors?

  Nevertheless, I knocked politely. Two palm-thuds, then a single knuckle-rap. My personal signal.

  The door opened. As the staff bustled about filling my order—it would be a very large one, for I had brought twenty dollars, far more than usual—a palpable odor of fear overpowered even the aromatic cooking in progress.

  Selecting a cook I knew had been there for years, I asked if I might impose upon him to request a brief audience for me with the proprietor.

  The cook bowed more deeply than my apparent station in life should have warranted. He left without a word, returned almost immediately, and silently pointed toward a side door.

  As I opened that door, I found myself in a lushly carpeted corridor. At the end of the corridor, I could see the proprietor through the open door of what was clearly his private office.

  He stood up as I entered, and greeted me as if I were an invited guest, worthy of respect. I bowed my thanks. At his invitation, I sat on the floor beside a small, ornately carved table. He took his place across from me. How he signaled I do not know, but a young woman entered, and performed the formal tea ceremony with all the elegance of a true geisha before she departed wordlessly.

  “May I be permitted to ask a question?” I said.

  “Of course,” he replied, as if no other response could have entered his mind.

  “Shadow Riders?”

  “Ah! You must have seen them leave, the filthy little parasites.”

  “They are beggars?”

  “They are thugs,” the proprietor said. “They fancy themselves as Yakuza would in our country, but they are only children. They lack honor. For skill with a sword, they substitute firearms.”

  “Why would such be allowed—?”

  “It is a tax,” the proprietor said. “Not a government levy, but a cost of doing business all the same. If they are not paid, weekly, they will cause great damage. Other establishments which refused payment suffered in many ways, from staged disturbances that frightened customers to, in one known case, actual arson. They ‘protect’ my business from such possibilities. Insurance only compensates one for damage; they prevent damage from occurring.”

  “By not committing it.”

  “Hai!” he said, shrugging his shoulders to indicate he accepted this to be an inevitability. “Were it not them, it would be others,” he said, confirming my interpretation of his gesture.

  “I humbly thank you for granting me an audience,” I said.

  87

  On my way out, I picked up the huge sacks of food the kitchen had prepared. I handed one to Lamont and another to Target, and we headed crosstown to our dugout to share our bounty.

  “They’re trying to tell me things,” Brewster said abruptly. “I ask them to stop, but they never do.”

  “How much did you get paid?” Michael said, angrily.

  “I—”

  “You little pussy,” Ranger said. His voice was chilling. “You are not going to fuck up the mission, you understand?”

  “I was trying to help—”

  “No freelancers,” Ranger chopped off Brewster’s feeble words with the machete of his icy rage.

  However it had occurred, he and Michael viewed Brewster’s selling his medication as something even graver than a personal affront. Neither focused on the fact that the mission was on Brewster’s
behalf. Or on the danger Brewster put himself in whenever he went off his medication for too long. They saw Brewster’s act for what it was: a threat to the unifying force that protected us all.

  “I don’t like the meds anyway,” Brewster said, more aggressively than he had ever spoken before. “I hate them. You know … all that spastic stuff they make me do. I don’t even think I need them, not really.”

  “You don’t hear the voices when you’re taking them,” Lamont said. Nonjudgmental, merely stating a truth we all knew.

  “They’re not that bad,” Brewster said, the aggression gone from his voice.

  “We had a guy in our outfit,” Ranger said, his voice still without warmth. “Rocco. Man loved his weed. Toked through it like it was a pack of Lucky Strikes. Had his way, he would’ve stayed wherever that stuff took him, okay? He’d light up anywhere.”

  “But if he was on a mission—” Michael said, sagely, as if he was about to join Ranger’s effort to educate Brewster.

  “Mission? Fuck. I saw Rocco light up in the middle of a firefight one time! Puffing away and blazing away at the same time. Thing is, that was Rocco. And you know what Rocco was? A guy who had your back. A guy who grabbed the point when it was his turn. He didn’t get high to work up his nerve; he did it for the same reason a lot of guys did. You’re out there, a million miles from home, trying to kill a bunch of people who live there. And they’re trying to kill you. After a while, everyone—everyone on the fucking ground, I mean—gets the point.”

  Ranger lapsed into silence.

  “Which was …?” Michael asked.

  “Yeah,” Ranger answered. “What was the fucking point?” The depth of sadness in his voice was so profound that to call it “depression” would be to call a bone marrow infection a flesh wound.

  “Brewster,” I said. “I cannot speak for anyone but myself. And for myself I say this: if you do not return to your medication, I will not participate in the mission to save your library.”

  “You can deal me out, too, bro,” Lamont told him.